


A Dance

by SofterSoftest



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, I wrote something happy for these two for like, Maybe - Freeform, Violaf, Violet confirmed best at sneaking in everything I write, the third time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/pseuds/SofterSoftest
Summary: Olaf darkens the hall outside a VFD masquerade. A certain little inventor finds him and introduces herself. Violaf. One-shot.
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	A Dance

*

It is not cowardice that stalls him. 

Lack of alcohol, perhaps. 

Awareness of bad history. 

Sudden and overwhelming emotional discomfort. 

_ Certainly not cowardice _ , Olaf thinks, the words bitter in his mouth as if he had spoken. 

He stands in the darkened main hall of VFD’s headquarters watching whirls of snow drift beyond the grand windows. Meanwhile, at his back, a masquerade commences, one that he has not yet had the fortitude to join. 

Years ago, he thinks, safely cocooned in his armor of flippance and casual cruelty, Olaf could have sauntered into the ballroom without a backwards glance, sneering as if he loathed the whole thing, and spent his evening camped at the bar - full of gossip and snark and the kind of masculine bravado that made women want to kneel. 

Even now, standing in the shadowy dark, listening to the grandiose swinging of their music, he could imagine stepping into that identity like a well-worn and beloved pair of dancing shoes, a performance, a spectacle, and -

entirely wrong. 

Penniless despite his villainous plots, his shame only slightly outmatching his bitterness, (his Troupe gone, his home derelict, his whole life as appealing as a slowly sinking ship -) he had come seeking advice from the one man who had annoyed him for decades with the promise of immediate redemption.

_ “I want what’s best for those I respect and admire. That includes you, Olaf,” _ Jacques had said, already offering his hand. _ “You’ve got a keen mind and a flair for the dramatic. If you reinvestigate your ethical priorities, you could help repair the world instead of filling it with smoke.” _

Salvation, before, had seemed too clean. Too merciful. 

Jacques Snicket shook his hand despite the blood between them.

After months of suspicion and training and intense paranoia from every volunteer he could imagine (except, he remembers, Jacques and Beatrice -) Olaf had slowly gained enough rapport to be invited to the masquerade. Dressing, travelling, arriving, he could do. It was being seen alone, crippled, reduced, that made him hesitant, haunting the front hall like a spectre in the low light. 

Olaf glances to the glowing ballroom where volunteers stand drinking and chatting and twirling together on the dance floor, too far away to guess at identity. He straightens his silken bowtie, examines his shiny shoes against the ornate tile floor frosted with moonlight.

_ Cowardice _ , he thinks again, utterly disgusted with himself.

Light footsteps interrupt his brooding.

“Oh! Hi…”

A young woman stands across the front hall, having just returned from one of the headquarters’ many balconies, her long, wavy hair still flecked with snow. 

She wears a pale linen dress, ruffled at the low-cut bodice, the neckline dipping beneath her collarbone and swinging wide off her shoulders. The sleeves hang belled at her wrists, tied at the ends with thin, black ribbon. The hem is cut raggedly at her knees as if she had shorn it herself, the blade dull and rusty.

She is, almost certainly, Olaf thinks, one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen.

There is a small moment, quick as a heartbeat’s span, where they examine one another, eyes roaming and raving and meeting. 

“Um,” the young woman says, hurrying on small, pale flats to his side. Up close he finds her even more divine - all long eyelashes, full lips, and a flush to her cheeks that only good wine brings. 

By the time Olaf finally looks into her eyes he finds them rapt and concerned. 

“You seem… lost,” she says, voice sweet as it is decimating. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m not  _ lost _ ,” Olaf says, tearing his eyes away from her to glance at the ballroom. “I’m buying time.”

“Buying time, huh,” she repeats, sounding doubtful. He sees her eyes linger on his hands, clasped and empty. “Don’t you have a mask?”

Olaf does not even bother to check. “No. Don’t you?”

The young woman frowns, patting along the curves of her hips as if she is used to having several pockets at once. “Ah. No. Must’ve forgotten it in the taxi.”

“Forgetful, are you?” He mutters, teasing, testing.

“No,” the young woman insists. “I’m as forgetful as I am sneaky. Which, in this case, means only in the most important of circumstances.”

“Ah. So you forgot your mask on purpose.” He examines her closely, watches her expression go neutral, attempting a veiled facial disguise. 

“What makes you think that?” She asks, too sweetly. 

“You’re outrunning someone.” Olaf decides. Then, just to watch her squirm, “A boy?”

She holds onto neutrality for a moment more before the expression falls away with a laugh. Conceding, she says, “Alright. Fine. Yes. Two boys, actually. The Quagmires won’t leave me alone.”

“Ah, the perils of pretty young women,” Olaf laments, “Always doomed to be pestered by anyone easily charmed.”

He flicks his fingers lazily, glances her over without trying to hide it. Then, “Take it as a compliment, my dear. Their eyes seem to be in working order.”

“Ah, you’d think,” she says with a shrug. “I  _ am  _ flattered. I just don’t care.”

“How harsh,” Olaf teases. “You’ll tear their hearts to shreds.”

She shrugs again, flips her hair wide over her shoulder, exposing the long slope of her throat, pale as a candlestick. “If a purposefully forgotten mask buys me some time while they try to find me, it’ll be worth it.”

“Well, there’s your supposed forgetfulness. What about your sneaking?”

“Oh. That.” She glances towards the ballroom as if afraid someone might overhear. “It won’t be necessary here. I use that particular talent at home most often.”

She casts him a peculiar glance, studying him as if expecting epiphany or rebuke.

He opens his mouth to reply, something cloying and questioning, but she beats him to it, holding out her hand in introduction. 

“Violet Baudelaire,” she says, casting him a dazzling grin. He takes her hand, soft and warm as a peach, and even that small brush of contact has Olaf’s stomach dropping like a schoolboy’s, as if his composure had fallen out from under him like a splintered trapdoor. “I’ve been listening in on all the talks you’ve had with my mom and Jacques. And I’m not telling you how, so don’t ask. But I’m very excited for you to finally return to VFD. You seem very genuine.”

“Baudelaire. Of course.” Olaf says, “You’re a little eavesdropper, hmm?”

He watches a blush swamp her cheeks and thinks, like any growing addiction, that he could get used to seeing it. 

Violet offers him another smile, a hint of wickedness in it. “Yes. I had to know why a strange, handsome man was suddenly arriving at our house.”

Olaf, surprised more than he’d admit, nods slowly. When he tries to meet her eyes, he finds Violet staring towards the ballroom, an odd, pinched look to her face, as if she had tried and failed to keep from embarrassing herself.

“Handsome,” he repeats, smug and low. “Violet, do you realize that in the short span of our conversation, you’ve described yourself as forgetful, sneaky, and utterly uninterested in two boys your own age?”

“Playing my hand too forcefully, am I?” She meets his eyes with a calculative look. “Pardon my tactlessness. I’ve been watching you come and go for months, and not saying a single word to you as per my  _ dear  _ mother’s request. I had hoped to charm you into a dance. In - ”

“You were looking for me,” Olaf realizes suddenly, as sure as any truth he’s spoken. “Up on that balcony.”

Violet doesn’t deny it, merely continues, “Indulge a young woman in her silly crush, Olaf. Help me avoid the Quagmire boys. Dance with me.”

Attraction, that wild ache, makes his heart race. Olaf, playing at uninterested, says, “And disgrace my good name by arriving to the masquerade with a lovely  _ young  _ Baudelaire on my arm? They’ll crucify me.”

Violet examines him, a slow grin uncurling on her delicate face. It is at this moment he realizes how intuitive and effortlessly smart she must be. 

“You’re tempted,” she accuses, holding out her hand, an eager invitation.

“I’m more than tempted, Violet,” he admits, offering his elbow. “Your little scheme is a success.”

“I’m a master at purposeful forgetfulness now,” she gloats with a laugh, threading their arms, her palm hot on the crook of his elbow even through his sleeve. “Master at sneaking. At scheming, too.”

“Congratulations,” he purrs, sarcastic and already affectionate. “I’ll reward you with a dance.”

“Oh, only one?” Violet pouts, dragging him towards every person he’s ever done wrong.

“Don’t push it, Baudelaire,” he says, already knowing he will bend to her wishes, will dance with her until his feet ache, will return to VFD entranced and consumed and heartswollen, his whole being engulfed in whimsical allure for Violet Baudelaire.

If only for a night, hesitation and morality and cowardice be damned.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I found this little thing while digging through the files on my computer. I wrote it a long time ago on tumblr and forgot to publish it here. Oops. Have it here, now, with a bit of minor editing.


End file.
